THE INSHORE SQUADRON

17. The Prime Target

Bolitho sat at a small table in the stern cabin, a pen poised above his report. Someone would read it, he thought grimly, log books and written reports always seemed to survive no matter what.

It was a strange feeling, like sitting in an abandoned house. The furniture had all been taken below, and without looking up from the table he knew that the gun crews of the nearest nine-pounders were sharing the space with him. Screens had been taken down, and the ship, as she moved very slowly towards the Danish coastline once again, was cleared for battle from bow to stern.

Unlike Nelson's fleet, Bolitho's squadron had been under way throughout the night, his four ships of the line divided into two short columns so that they could watch as much of the area as possible.

The seamen and marines had worked watch and watch, snatching a few hours rest beside their guns and nourished by neat rum and stale food. The galley fire had long since been doused for safety's sake, for each ship in the squadron had to be prepared to fight at minutes' notice.

Bolitho looked at the lines he had written about Mr Midshipman George Penels, aged twelve years and nine months, who had died the previous day in one desperate act of courage.

What had the boy been thinking of? Of Pascoe, whom he had got involved in Babbage's desertion, of his admiral, who had cared enough to put him in Browne's charge when everyone else had shunned him?

This carefully worded report might help the boy's mother when the news eventually reached her in Cornwall. Bolitho had no doubt that Herrick would make certain no mention of Babbage would mar his memory for her.

Allday walked to an open port and leaned down to watch the sea, cold and grey in the morning light. Two cables abeam, Nicator, followed by Inch's Odin, brought life to the dreary scene.

He said, 'Not long now, sir.'

Bolitho waited for Yovell to seal the envelope and replied, _ 'The attack will begin in two hours, if everything is timed correctly.'

He glanced along the deck, past where the screen door would normally be, to the gloom beneath the poop and beyond to the crowded activity of the quarterdeck.

'Our part will happen at any moment.' He stood up and tested his leg warily. `Get my sword, will you?'

How quiet the ship was, he thought. The excitement of the Ajax 's capture and her terrible end when the fuses had been fired in her magazine had been dulled by the loss of Peel's ship. Altogether, Lookout had found ten survivivors. With Pascoe and the burned seaman also rescued, that meant a total bill of some two hundred sailors and marines killed. It was too much of a price to pay.

Bolitho had visited his nephew several times during the night. Each occasion had found Pascoe wide awake, defying Loveys' efforts to make him rest and save his strength.

Perhaps those last moments in the water were too stark in his mind, as if by going to sleep he would never reawake and find his survival only part of a nightmare.

But Pascoe's descriptions, brief though they were, completed a full and horrific picture.

The cruellest part of it had been that Peel had been winning. But some last fury had brought the Ajax too close, so that both frigates had collided bowsprit to bowsprit, bringing down the Frenchman's mizzen and hurling many of the men from their feet. -

Pascoe vaguely remembered Peel shouting about smoke even as Relentless's cheering boarders had rushed to grapple the enemy hand to hand.

He had been on the quarterdeck, the second lieutenant having been killed in the opening.broadsides. The next minute he had felt himself flying through the air and then being smashed, choking, into the sea.

Pascoe had started to swim for a drifting boat when one of the Relentless's topmasts had dropped from the sky like a giant's lance and had cut the boat in half and some struggling men with it.

The thing which Pascoe had not been able to accept was the actual explosion. It had blasted the thirty-six-gun frigate to pieces, yet he had heard nothing.

The collision between the two ships had probably caught a man off balance below decks. A lantern overturned, some powder spilled as a boy ran to serve his gun, or even a flaming wad from the enemy's broadside, it could have been caused by any one of many things.

Bolitho walked slowly beneath the poop, his head ducking automatically between the deckhead beams.

Faces turned to watch him pass, faces which after nearly seven months were no longer strangers.

The figures on the quarterdeck came alive as he stepped out into the morning light, and he saw Herrick with a telescope trained across the nettings towards the Lookout which stood well away on the larboard bow.

The sea was rising and falling in a slow swell, with no crests to break the surface or the motion. There was quite a lot of haze about, and far ahead of the two columns of ships it looked pale green. A trick of the eye and distance. The haze was real enough but the green layer was land. Denmark.

Herrick saw him and touched his hat.

'Wind's backed two more points, sir. More than I hoped. I shall continue on this tack, nor'-nor'-east, until I can make a proper landfall.' Some of the old, uncertain Herrick stepped out of memory as he added, `With your permission, that is.'

'Aye, Thomas. That should suit us well.'

He strode to the nettings and peered across the opposite quarter. There was Styx, alone and watchful, ready to dash downwind and assist when required.

Ajax 's captain had probably imagined the Relentless to be her, Bolitho thought. It would be just enough to drive him to the last edge of anger and hatred.

Midshipman Keys, who was assisting Browne, called excitedly, `Signal from Lookout, sir. Two strange sail to the north west!'

Men bustled around in a flurry of lively flags as the signal was repeated down the line and to the distant Styx.

'Two sail, eh?' Herrick rubbed his chin.

Bolitho said, `General signal, please. Prepare for battle.' Wolfe chuckled and gestured abeam to the Nicator. `Listen,

sir! They're cheering already!'

Browne reported, `All acknowledged, sir.'

Bolitho met his eyes. 'All right now?'

The flag lieutenant smiled stiffly. 'Better, sir. A bit better.' 'Deck there! Enemy in sight! Two sail of the line!'

Wolfe strode back and forth, his ungainly feet miraculously missing ring-bolts and the crouching gun crews with their yam mers and handspikes.

'No frigates then? That's something!'

Herrick stiffened and held his glass in direct line with the larboard cathead.

'Got'em!'

Bolitho raised his own glass and saw the two towering spans of canvas emerging from the mist as the other ships continued towards him on a converging tack.

Two-deckers, each with a great curling flag at her gaff, red with a white cross, the Danish colours.

Benbow's forecourse lifted and puffed itself out like a huge chest as a strengthening breeze pushed across the dull water.

Bolitho said, 'They're holding their course, Thomas. Strange. They're heavily outnumbered.'

Herrick grinned. 'Makes a change, sir.'

Bolitho thought of the man in the book-lined room at the Danish Palace. What was he doing at this moment? Did he still remember their brief meeting, with Inskip hovering around like a nursemaid?

Somebody chuckled, the sound unnatural in the tension of the quarterdeck.

Bolitho turned and saw Pascoe coming from the poop, very pale but trying not to show his uncertainty. He was wearing a borrowed uniform which was far too large for him.

He touched his hat and said lamely, 'Reporting for duty, sir.'

Herrick stared at him. 'My God, Mr Pascoe, what are you thinking of?'

But Bolitho said, `Welcome back.'

Pascoe smiled at the grinning seamen nearby. 'The coat belongs to Mr Oughton, sir. He is a bit, well, larger.'

– Bolitho nodded. 'If you feel weak, say so.'

He could understand Pascoe's need to get on deck. After his experience in Relentless, he would be unwilling to stay on the orlop with its grim reminders.

Pascoe said simply, 'I heard about Penels, sir. I feel to blame. When he first came to see me…'

Herrick interrupted, 'There was nothing you could have prevented. If wrong was done, then I must bear it, too. He needed advice, and I damned him for his one foolish act.'

'Deck there!' The lookout hesitated, as if unable to describe what he saw. 'Galleys! Between the two ships!' His voice cracked in disbelief. 'So many-I can't count'em!'

Bolitho levelled his glass just in time to see another hoist of signals appear on Lookout's yards. He did not need to read it. Between the two oncoming ships was a veritable flotilla of galleys, sweeps rising and falling like crimson wings, flags streaming above the hidden oarsmen and each massive bowgun

'Load and run out, Captain Herrick.' His sharp formality swept away the momentary easing of tension. 'Upper gundeck with grape and bar-shot.'

He turned towards the marine officers. 'Major Clinton, there'll be work for your best shots today.'

The two marines touched their hats and hurried away to their men.

Speaking his thought aloud, Bolitho said, 'They will try to separate us. Signal Styx and Lookout to harry the enemy's rear as soon as we are engaged.'

The young midshipman who had taken the place of the dead Penels wrote scratchily on his slate and then waited, his mouth half open, as if he could not get his breath.

Bolitho looked at him impassively, seeing in those few seconds his youth, his hopes and his trust.

'Now, Mr Keys, you may hoist number sixteen, and make sure it stays flying.'

The youth nodded jerkily and then ran back to his seamen. He yelled, `Jump to it,_Stewart! Hoist the signal for Close Action!'

At a guess, Keys was about fourteen. If he lived after today he would remember this moment forever, Bolitho thought.

Slowly and inexorably the two formations continued to dose one another. It was, as if they were being drawn by some irresistible force, or that their captains were blind and unaware of the approaching danger.

Herrick asked, `Line of battle, sir?'

Bolitho did not reply immediately. He moved his glass carefully from ship to ship, each with her broadsides run out like dull teeth, her yards and taut canvas unchanged.

During the night Bolitho's squadron had kept to the carefully rehearsed plan. After standing well clear of Copenhagen the squadron had slowly changed tack, taking advantage of the wind's backing to move closer again to the land, like drawing the noose of a halter. At first glance the plan had worked perfectly. Here were the galleys, heading north towards Copenhagen to offer their massive support just as soon as the British admiral made his move to attack. Bolitho could either continue to close with them or could harry them all the way to their objective.

The presence of the two third-rates puzzled him. Big men-ofwar rarely worked with fast-moving vessels under oars. The varying scales of mobility and fire-power would hinder rather than help.

Perhaps the Danes were merely sending the ships to add to their fleet in Copenhagen, using the cluster of galleys as a useful escort for the passage there.

He said, 'No. We will remain in two columns. I am not happy about the enemy's intentions. In a fixed line of battle we would be more vulnerable.'

Herrick sounded surprised. `They will not dare to attack us, sir! I'd stake Benbow's chances alone against the pair of 'em!'

Bolitho lowered the telescope and wiped his eye. `Have you ever seen galleys at work?'

`Well, I've no personal experience, sir, but…'

Bolitho nodded. `Aye, Thomas, but.'

He thought of the picture he had just seen compressed in the lens. Two, maybe three lines of galleys gliding abreast between the two big men-of-war. There was something unnerving about their unwavering approach, how it must have been in ancient days at Actium and Salamis.

He said, 'We will test their range. The first four guns of the lower battery. Maximum elevation, Thomas. See if that deters them.'

Herrick beckoned to a midshipman. `My compliments to Mr Byrd. Tell him to open fire with four ranging shots. Gun by gun, so that I can watch it.'

The midshipman vanished below, and Bolitho could picture the men turning from their ports and loaded thirty-twopounders to watch him scamper to the lieutenant in charge. The lower gundeck was always an eerie place. With the lanterns extinguished, the only light filtered around the guns in their ports. Sounds and events were shut off from the many men who waited there. The sides were painted in red, a grim reminder that in battle it would hide some of the horror even if it could not lessen the pain.

Bang. Some of the men on the upper deck stood to cheer as the gun spouted smoke and fire from below the forecastle.

Herrick commented, `Very close.'

Bolitho watched the second ball ricochet and then splash down in direct line with the right-hand ship.

Grubb rumbled uneasily, `Still comin', the buggers!'

`Continue firing, sir?' Herrick watched the widening array of craft, still expecting a change of direction.

No.'

Bolitho moved the glass towards the galleys. Still too far away to pick out details properly. Except for the precision of the stroke, tireless and easy, as if no human hand was needed. And the gun above each prow, the only ugly thing there was, like a tusk.

He flinched, even though he was expecting it, as the leading galleys faded momentarily in a swirling curtain of smoke.

Then came the sound, a jarring roar, intermingled and threatening, as the great guns lurched back on their slides.

In the few remaining seconds Bolitho heard the angry shriek of gulls which had only just returned to the water after Benbow's opening shots.

'Pork and molasses!' Wolfe fell back with astonishment as the sea erupted in a leaping torment of spray and smoke. 'Did you see that, for God's sake?'

Herrick exclaimed, 'That was too near for comfort, sir. They must be thirty-two-pounders, bigger maybe!'

Browne said, 'The Danish ships are changing tack, sir.'

Bolitho watched. It was like a cumbersome ballet, he thought. The two Danish ships were turning slowly to larboard, presenting themselves broadside on and heading roughly north-east. Passing ahead, through and astern of them the crimson galleys were splitting into smaller subdivisions, three or four to a section.

'Close the range, Thomas. Bring her up two points if you can.'

He fell silent and waited, counting seconds as the Danish guns fired again. He felt the hull shudder as some of the iron fell close alongside and flung cascades of spray high above the gangway to reach even the hard-braced foresail.

Bolitho recalled Allday's words to him… The enemy were certainly concentrating their opening fire on the flagship.

He said, 'Mr Browne, make to,Nicator, Lee column will not engage.'

He glanced up at the sails as they banged and protested to the change of course. Benbow was standing as dose to the wind as Grubb could manage, but the Danes still held the advantage, their canvas full-bellied and perfectly set.

Herrick was watching an arrowhead of galleys forging past the leading two-decker.

He said, 'Those devils are going to attack us from ahead, if we let 'em!'

Bolitho nodded. 'There is nothing we can do at present. If we alter course to lee'rd to gain agility the Danish ships will rake our sterns. Even at this range it could do untold harm before we are to grips with them.'

As he spoke he saw the cool reasoning of the Danish commander. Like sharks around a helpless whale, the galleys could cut Benbow down to the bones without risking a single man.

He said harshly, 'Signal Lookout to engage.'

Herrick turned away to watch Wolfe directing more men to the weather braces.

He knows, Bolitho thought bitterly. Lookout was fast and lively, but her slender hull was no match for heavy cannon.

Browne called, 'She's acknowledged, sir.'

Bolitho saw the sloop spreading her topgallants and sweeping round with her lee gunports almost awash. Like his own first command, he thought, so full of promise and high hopes. In his mind's eye he pictured Veitch, her commander, and prayed that he was using all his experience and shutting Relentless's fate from his thoughts.

The gunfire was growing and spreading as Indomitable loosed her first timed and aimed broadside at the enemy. Another crimson formation of galleys was pulling around the rear of the squadron, but with less confidence than the others as Styx altered course to meet them.

The sea's face was covered in a drifting mist of powder smoke, and the air shook to the screech and plunge of shot with barely a break.

In one brief lull Bolitho heard a deeper, heavier sound which seemed to drive through the water and lift the keel higher in his imagination.

Grubb ambled towards the deck-log. 'Reckon the fleet is attackin' now, sir!'

Wolfe turned and gave a fierce grin. ''Bout bloody time, Mr Grubb! I'm fair sick of being the prime target!'

The hull gave a violent lurch as a ball smashed deep into the bilges, and Bolitho heard the boatswain urging some of his spare hands below to assist.

'Lookout's in trouble, sir!'

Bolitho looked at the sloop, his mind like ice as he saw her foremast topple into the smoke, wreckage tearing adrift from her engaged side. The galleys were closing in on her, their guns hammering as fast as they could reload. One had been too daring and was lifting slowly like a pointer, spilling sweeps and bodies from the shattered hull before diving to the bottom.

Someone yelled, ' Styx has done for two of them!'

More cries and shouts came from below as another great ball punched into the side like a battering-ram.

Bolitho heard Wolfe yell through his speaking trumpet, 'On the uproll, gun captains!'

The men at the upper battery waited like crouching statues, their eyes blind as they tensed for the broadside. Wolfe yelled, 'Fire!'

Bolitho watched the leading Danish two-decker, felt his mouth go dry as the packed mass of grape and whirling bar-shot swept through the enemy's rigging. Sails and cordage, then the main-topmast itself fell together in a devastating avalanche of destruction. The bar-shot, masses of spade-shaped metal linked together by rings, was hard to aim, but when it found a target it could reduce a vessel's canvas and rigging to shreds in seconds.

Inflamed by the Danes' superior tactics and manoeuvrability, the effect of the broadside brought new heart to the gun crews. Sponging out and shouting meaningless words into the drifting smoke they worked like demons, their arms and backs streaming sweat despite the chill air.

Fire!'

Bolitho moved further aft, his eyes fixed on the leading ship as she began to fall downwind towards the Benbow's murderous broadsides.

All the months and weeks of drills born from dreary monotony were paying off now. Only a few distant waterspouts told of misses, and the majority of the shots, both ball and bar, were hitting their target. The Danes' fore-topgallant mast was falling, slewing round drunkenly as it fought against the pull of shrouds and stays before thundering over the side in a tremendous splash.

Benbow received another massive ball from somewhere ahead, and Bolitho saw two galleys moving towards the ship, firing as they approached. His heart sank as he saw Lookout beyond the billowing smoke. All but her mizzen had gone and she was drifting helplessly to the mercy of the galleys' bombardment with only a few of her guns still able to reply.

'Try and mark down those galleys with the bow-chasers!'

Bolitho could feel the rage rising within him. Not one of despair or frustration, but something more terrible. It was cold, gripping his insides like a vice as he~stared at the embattled vessels around him.

It was all suddenly stark and clear. Like Damerum's efforts to place him and his squadron here. Like his attempt to get Pascoe killed by a hired duellist. Now this. The sudden reality of defeat had acted as a spur rather than the opposite.

'Signal Nicator to engage the other ship now!' He felt metal hiss overhead and crash hard into the poop. ' Styx will support Nicator and Odin.'

He swung round, seeking the nearest galleys, as the Danish two-decker staggered heavily downwind to be hammered again by Indomitable as she kept station on her flagship.

'Full broadside, Thomas! We will alter course to starboard and engage with both sides.' He watched Nicator and then Odin as they acknowledged his signal and then snapped, 'Steer eastnor'-east!'

Men ran from side to side as both batteries of guns prepared to fire.

Bolitho shouted, 'It will have to be quick or the galleys will outpace us before we can rake them!'

By turning downwind and away from the remaining enemy two-decker it might seem that Benbow was withdrawing from the fight. And by ordering Keen and Inch to attack the rest of the enemy formation he knew he might be sacrificing them and every man under their command.

But he had to hit the galleys and destroy their confidence. Otherwise his whole squadron would be overwhelmed. No blame would lie with Damerum, for the Inshore Squadron would have served its purpose even in the blood of its own destruction. Nelson was at the gates of Copenhagen, and nothing which the galleys or anyone else could do would change that now.

Bolitho saw Pascoe walking between the guns, his borrowed hat gone, his black hair blowing across his face as he spoke to some of the seamen. He must be feeling the shock more deeply now, Bolitho thought, and even along the length of the deck he could see his unnatural stiffness.

He heard Herrick explaining to Wolfe and Grubb exactly what he wanted, saw the seamen manning the braces and staring aloft at the sails, most of which were patterned with shot holes.

'Stand by on the quarterdeck!'

More shots hit the hull, but in the tension nobody cried out.

Gun crews stood by their tackles, the captains testing the trigger lines and picturing their targets.

`Now! Put up your helm! Lee braces there! Roundly, lads!' Bolitho felt the deck begin to tilt, saw an upended fire-bucket spill water across the pale planking as once again Benbow res ponded to her masters.

The galleys are reforming, sir!' Browne broke off choking in gunsmoke as the upper batteries crashed inboard once more from their ports.

Bolitho strode to the nettings, seeing Nicator and Odin, their hulls overlapping as they dosed the range with the Danish ships. Galleys milled around them, sweeps pulling and then backing with equal precision as their commanders handled them as if they and the guns were one weapon.

Odin was pouring smoke from her side and poop, but Keen's Nicator was firing at point-blank range at her adversary, so that as a full broadside smashed into the Danish ship she appeared to rock over as if struck by a mountainous sea.

Benbow's alteration of course had not only taken her away from the squadron, but had also isolated her amongst the galleys. Her first massive broadsides as she had swung downwind had taken the galleys completely by surprise, and seven of them had been sunk or smashed beyond. recognition. Figures floundered amongst floating timbers and broken spars, and Bolitho guessed that some were survivors from the Lookout which had foundered without anyone seeing her final moments.

Bolitho stared along the upper deck at the seamen and marines who had been working and firing, pulling wreckage and wounded men aside without a break since the opening shots. The hull was being hit again and again, and despite the din he could hear the occasional dank of pumps.

'Odin's signalling, sir! Require assistance!'

Bolitho glanced across at Herrick and said, `Inch will have to hold on, Thomas.'

He turned as a man fell kicking and choking on his own blood, cut down by a fragment of iron.

Someone found the breath for a cheer as another galley rolled over, gutted by a packed charge of round-shot and grape.

Falling further and further astern of her flagship, the Indomitable was fighting off attacks from both bow and quarter, the great balls slamming through the stem and forecastle, upending guns and forcing their crews to cower down for protection.

Herrick, his hat gone, a pistol gripped in his hand, peered through the smoke and shouted, 'Two more of 'em are dosing astern!'

There was a great crash, and Grubb yelled hoarsely, 'Steerin' carried away, sir!'

A wildly flapping shadow swept overhead, and Bolitho felt himself being dragged roughly aside as the mizzen-topmast, spars and trailing creepers of cut rigging clattered and thundered over the larboard side.

It was like being left naked. Guns crashed and recoiled as before, but as Benbow swung helplessly out of control the aim was lost. Men lay buried beneath great coils of fallen rope and blocks, others crept about on hands and knees like terrified dogs. There were many dead, too, including the marine lieutenant, Marston, an overturned cannon had crushed his chest and stomach to bloody pulp.

Swale, the boatswain, was already there with his men, axes flashing, more concerned with freeing their ship from the trailing anchor of wreckage than with their fallen comrades.

Herrick assisted Bolitho to his feet, his eyes wild as he shouted at his first lieutenant.

'Send a master's mate below, Mr Wolfe! Rig emergency steering tackle!'

Bolitho nodded to Allday who had pulled him away from the splintered topmast as it fell.

Major Clinton at the head of some marines charged aft and up to the poop to reinforce his men there as four and then five galleys dosed around the Benbow's unprotected stern. Again and again the deck jumped and quivered as ball after ball slammed through the counter and quarter gallery, against which the crack of Clinton 's muskets sounded puny and useless.

A swivel blasted canister from the maintop, and Bolitho realized that the first Danish ship, which had been totally disabled by Benbow's broadsides, had drifted down towards them and was barely fifty yards away. Shots banged back and forth across the narrowing arrowhead of water, and marksmen joined in to try and seek their enemy's officers and add further to the confusion and death.

The midshipman named Keys staggered and toppled sideways, but Allday caught him before he hit the deck.

He stared past Allday at Bolitho, his eyes glazing rapidly as he managed to whisper, 'Number… sixteen… still… flies… sir!' Then he died.

Bolitho looked up blindly, seeing another midshipman swarming up the main-topgallant mast with his rear-admiral's flag trailing behind him like a banner.

Wolfe jumped back as the last of the mizzen's severed rigging slithered across the deck and vanished over the side.

But he pivoted round again as Major Clinton shouted, `They're boarding us, sir!'

Herrick waved his pistol, but Bolitho shouted, `Save your ship, Thomas!' Then he beckoned to the gun crews at the disengaged side and added, 'With me, Benbows!'

Whooping and yelling like demented beings they charged through the poop and down the companion, half of which had been reduced to splinters. Steel clashed on steel, and in the semi-darkness men staggered and reeled through the smoke, cutlasses and boarding axes painting the deckhead and timbers in shining patterns of blood.

A pistol banged out, and through the wardroom's shattered stern windows Bolitho saw men leaping up from the galleys which were hooking on to the counter and fighting their way inboard. Many fell to Clinton 's muskets, but still more appeared, yelling and cursing as they grappled with Benbow's seamen. Even in the cruel madness of battle they would be well aware that the only way to stay alive now was to win.

Lieutenant Oughton aimed his pistol at a Danish officer, pulled the trigger and gaped at the weapon in horror as it misfired.

The Danish officer parried a sailor's cutlass aside and drove his blade through Oughton's stomach once, and then again; before he had time to cry out.

As Oughton fell the Danish officer saw Bolitho, his eyes widening as in those brief seconds he took in his rank and authority.

Bolitho felt the man's blade slide across his own, saw the Dane's first determination give way to desperation as the hilts locked and Bolitho twisted his wrist as he had done so often in the past.

But as he took the weight on his wounded leg it seemed to weaken under him, the pain making him gasp as he lost the advantage a rid fell back against the press of men behind him.

Allday's great cutlass flashed across his vision and sank into the officer's forehead like an axe into a log. Allday wrenched it free and swung again at a man who was trying to duck past him. The man screamed and fell, trodden instantly underfoot as the hacking, gasping men fought savagely to hold their ground.

Then it was done, the surviving boarders running to the broken stem to climb back to their galleys or to drop into the sea to escape the reddened cutlasses and pikes.

Wolfe appeared, his face like stone as he stared at the corpses and the glittering runnels of blood.

'We are almost alongside the enemy, sir!'

He saw a man's hand creeping from the shadows to ' retrieve a fallen pistol. One great foot pinioned the man's wrist to the deck, and with almost contemptuous ease Wolfe struck.down with his hanger, cutting off the scream almost before it had began.

Bolitho gasped, `Leave some spare hands here!'

He heard Allday hurrying after him to the companion, saw the most forward gun crews fading into deeper shadow as the drifting enemy floated slowly alongside. But they continued to fire, cheering and swearing, aware of nothing but the pockmarked hull opposite their muzzles. Men lay dead and dying around the guns but only the other ship seemed to mean anything. Deafened, half-blinded, sickened by the stench of killing, it was likely that some of them had not even noticed the attempt to board their ship from astern.

Bolitho walked across the shot-pitted quarterdeck, his eyes fixed on the enemy. Men fired muskets, swivels and pistols, while others, driven almost mad, stood and shook their cutlasses and pikes at the Danes.

Herrick had one hand inside his coat and there was blood on his wrist.

Browne was on his knees bandaging Acting Lieutenant Aggett's leg which had been laid open by a wood splinter.

`Repel boarders!'

With a grinding shudder the two hulls came together in a powerful embrace, yards and rigging snared, gun muzzles overlapping and grating as they continued to drift helplessly downwind.

Clinton waved his stick. 'At'em, marines!'

The red-coated marines ran to the attack, bayonets probing and stabbing through the nets as the first Danish seamen attempted to cut their way through.

Men fell screaming between the hulls, human fenders as the ships rocked and ground together on the swell. Others tried to get away, to be trodden down by their companions or shot in the back in sight of safety.

A pike jabbed through the nets and narrowly missed Allday's chest. Browne parried it away and slashed the attacker across the face before despatching him with a full thrust.

Like survivors on a rock, Grubb and his helmsmen stood clustered around the useless wheel, firing pistols at the figures on the enemy's poop and gangway while their wounded companions reloaded for them as best they could.

Pascoe came running aft with the carronade crews, his hanger flashing dully through the smoke.

Then he skidded to a halt, his feet and legs splattered with blood, as he shouted, `Sir! Indomitable's signalling!'

Herrick swore savagely and fired his remaining pistol at a man's head below the nettings.

'Signals? God dammit, we've no time for them!'

Browne wiped his mouth and lowered his sword. Then he said hoarsely, 'Indomitable's repeating a signal from the fleet. Discontinue the engagement! Number thirty-nine, sir!'

Bolitho stared past the Indomitable's battered hull and trailing shrouds. A frigate, one of Nelson's, was standing far beyond the smoke like an intruder, the signal still flapping to the wind.

`Cease firing!'

Wolfe pointed his hanger at the ship alongside as one by one the Danish seamen dropped their weapons and stood like stricken creatures, knowing that for them it was all over.

Herrick said, 'Take charge of our prize, Mr Wolfe!' He turned to look at the ships and at the galleys which even now were fading away into the smoke to seek refuge in their harbour.

The sea was littered with flotsam and broken timber of every sort. Men, friend and enemy alike, dung together for mutual support and awaited rescue, too beaten and shocked to care much who had won. There were many corpses, too, and Inch's Odin was so deep by the bows that she looked as if she might capsize at any moment.

Only the Styx seemed unmarked, distance hiding her hurt and scars as she shortened sail to search amongst the debris of battle.

Bolitho put his arm round his nephew's shoulder and asked, 'D'you still want a frigate, Adam?'

But the reply was lost in a growing wave of cheering, wilder and louder as it spread from ship to ship, with even the wounded croaking at the sky, grateful to be alive, to have come through it once more, or for the first dreadful time.

Herrick picked up his hat and banged it against his knee. Then he put it on his head and said quietly, 'Benbow's a good ship. I'm proud of her!'

Bolitho smiled at his friend, feeling the tiredness and the pain as he glanced at the grinning, smoke-blackened faces around him.

'Men, not ships, you once said, Thomas. Remember?'

Grubb blew his nose and then said, 'Rudder's answerin', sir!'

Bolitho looked at Browne. It had been a near thing. Even now he was not certain how it might have ended had the frigate not appeared. Perhaps the English and the Danes were too much alike to fight. If so, there would have been no man alive by nightfall.

Browne asked huskily, 'Signal, sir?'

'Aye. General signal. Squadron to form line ahead and astern o f flagship as convenient.'

The flag for close action rippled down from the yard, and as it was removed from the halliards Allday took it and laid it across the face of the dead midshipman.

Bolitho watched and then said quietly, `We will rejoin the fleet, Captain Herrick.'

They looked at each other. Bolitho, Herrick, Pascoe and Allday. Each had had something to sustain him throughout the battle. And this time there was something to hope for in the future.

Even if the weather remained kind to the mauled and bloodied squadron there was much to be done. Friends to be contacted, the dead to be buried, the ships to be made safe for the passage home.

But for this one precious moment, this escape from hell, a new hope would suffice.